My Dad and Goldilocks

My parents are Dutch Brothers' drinkers. Partly because in the town I grew up in, its more available, and partly because it's just right.

For whatever reason, Dutch Brother's is much less common here in Portland. Starbucks is the thing. And I adore having my parents take me out to coffee here.

We're at the counter, Dad looks at me and says, "You go first." I smile, turn to the barista, "Yeah, I'll have a tall skinny vanilla latte." I tilt the end of my statement just a bit, so it's less harsh and comes out with a hint of question. I feel grown-up and important (a kick-back to the days when it was a sign of maturity among my fellow junior-highers to drink coffee), because I know when we get back to the car, Dad will tell Mama how I ordered her coffee like a professional, and doesn't it taste good?

It was one of these times that Dad and I decided we wanted a tall "Goldilocks latte." We chuckled over our cleverness as we explained to Andrew, our barista, that it was a latte or mocha that was "just right: not too sweet, but sweet enough; not too hot, but hot enough."

"ha ha ha." Actually, I don't know if Andrew was even that enthusiastic.

Outside, sat about five white-curly-haired, sweet-looking old ladies. My Dad turns to me with a sparkle in his eyes, "They're the Goldilocks' club... not too sweet, but sweet enough; not to hot, but hot enough."

We laugh all the way to his truck, stopping just short of waking K and G from their nap in the backseat.